


You Were Ready, I Wasn’t

by newbie93



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa, exchange fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newbie93/pseuds/newbie93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever chasm has emerged between them since her departure, and subsequent return, cannot fully strip away the psychic link that Skye is convinced they share. His speech may be stuttered, and her words may no longer complete his sentences, but he is still finely tuned to most things concerning Jemma Simmons.</p><p>(Or the one where Fitz gets slightly injured during a mission and Jemma gets more than slightly upset about it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were Ready, I Wasn’t

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Perfect-Weekend on Tumblr as part of the Fitzsimmons Secret Santa fic exchange.
> 
> Prompt: Spontaneous first kiss pre-dating/post-confession
> 
> Written as a post-2x08 story.

The minute he steps off the cargo ramp of the plane he can feel her eyes on him.

The sensation starts as a slow burn and seems to intensify with each step he takes. Whatever chasm has emerged between them since her departure, and subsequent return, cannot fully strip away the psychic link that Skye is convinced they share. His speech may be stuttered, and her words may no longer complete his sentences, but he is still finely tuned to most things concerning Jemma Simmons.

She’s waiting at the edge of the base, lab-coat on and surgical gloves in place, and he realizes belatedly as she brushes past him with nothing but a fiery glance, that Coulson must have called ahead to inform the others of their need for medical assistance. Trip stumbles forwards as he’s transferred from the Director to Jemma and Fitz can do nothing but step out of the way as they move past him towards the med-bay.

Skye and Coulson quickly move to follow patient and doctor, steadily keeping pace, with Skye’s hand twitching forward every few steps as though expecting Trip to collapse backward on top of them. His own gait is more of an amble. He moves slowly, hunched over and trailing his teammates, the high from the mission fading and being replaced by the insecurity and doubt that recently seems to fill him whenever he is within 20 feet of Jemma Simmons.

The group makes its way into the med-bay when he spots Mack down the hall and adjusts his course. He assumes that the others are too focused on Trip to notice him beginning to make a detour. He assumes that he will fade to the background as he has become prone to do. He assumes that he’s not needed anymore.

He only makes it three steps before he hears his name in a distinctly English accent.

“Fitz!” Laced within that single word is a strange mix of exasperation, anger, and something else that he cannot find the word for. He’s startled enough by the tone that he halts mid-step and pivots his head to meet the eyes of the one person he’s been doing his best to avoid. “Wh- What, umm, what… did you need something from me?” His fingers twitch at his side and he has to restrain himself from twisting his hands together in a bid to soothe his anxiety.

“I’ll be checking whoever went on the mission for injuries after I look over Agent Triplett.” He knows what she’s getting at, fully understanding what she has left unvoiced. He went on the mission therefore he too would be scrutinized under her steady gaze. He is unsurprised by the sudden bout of terror that engulfs him with her less than subtle implication that he will be alone with her whether he wants to be or not.

He wants to be.

And that’s what _actually_ terrifies him.

He’s still a genius after all, whether he can properly demonstrate his capabilities or not, and is able to accurately deduce that the less time he has to spend with Jemma Simmons, the lower the risk of getting his heart crushed. He’s done an adequate job of avoiding her like the plague, only interacting when strictly necessary and doing so with as little words and exchanges as possible. More often than not their interactions have been the result of direct orders from Coulson.

He’s still mending, in more ways than one, and until he deems himself worthy of being in her presence, he plans to stay as far away from Jemma as he can.

Which makes her sudden desire to check the team for injuries that much more petrifying.

He needs more time. He needs to run through the speech exercises he’s been doing in the privacy of his own room. He needs to focus on keeping his hands still for more than a minute. He needs to prepare. Needs to psych himself up and compose himself enough to convince the smartest woman he knows that he’s all right. That he’s _better._

He needs to get away before facing her. Just for a moment. Just so he can put his façade in place. 

“Right… That’s fine. I’m just going to… to go work with Mack until you need me. I mean…Not… Not need me. Just, I meant… I meant until you need me to get cleared. Until I need to be cleared.” He winces slightly, closing his eyes in frustration as he berates himself for his inability to make it ten seconds without turning into the bumbling shadow of his former self. “I’ll be in the garage ‘til then.” He turns to leave in a bid to escape the situation, more importantly to escape the stares of his team, when the same voice stops him again.

“Don’t even think about it Fitz. I’ve spent the past day worrying about you lot and I’m not letting any of you out of my sight until I know you’re all uninjured and in one piece.” There is steel in her gaze that entrances him and, not for the first time, he is left trying to solve the puzzle that is this new Jemma Simmons. “So you can forget about going to the garage and continue following us to the med-bay.” Her gaze is unwavering and he can feel his mouth grow dryer with each passing second as he takes in her rigid posture and unyielding attitude. When the eye contact becomes too much, he fixes his stare once more down the hallway in the hopes of finding some sort of getaway.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Now Agent Fitz.” She doesn’t yell per say, it’s more of a stern command, but the ‘Agent’ she places in front of his name feels like a hundred punches to the stomach. The formality stings more than it should considering the distance between them- both emotional and physical- is predominantly due to his own avoidance of her. He sees Skye and Trip exchange a glance out of the corner of his eye and knows that they are equally discomforted by the cool professionalism that has replaced Jemma’s usually cheery tone.

“Umm… Right… Right then.” He clasps his hands together, rubbing his left with his right out of habit, and shuffles towards the team. He keeps his gaze down in an attempt to avoid any further eye contact and can’t help noticing that the free hand that isn’t supporting Trip’s weight is curled into a fist at Jemma’s side, skin pulled taut and white from the strain. 

He zeroes in on it and lets his mind wander, cataloging all of the possible sources of the tension that is radiating from her closed fist. Logically it is the result of the worry she claimed to be feeling before, but he can’t get rid of the notion that he himself may be the root of the problem. After all, the exchanges Jemma has shared with Skye and Trip in the last few minutes have been mostly relaxed. The clenched fist didn’t make an appearance until she spoke to him.

Her fist is small and delicate, much like the Jemma he knew before, but now has an impenetrable armor, like the Jemma he’s trying _not_ to know now. He has the sudden urge to reach out and unfurl each of her fingers one by one, carefully and gently, in a bid to bring back some semblance of normalcy and familiarity. Jemma Simmons shouldn’t be forced to wear armor. The people around her should protect her instead.

His own hand twitches of its own volition in her direction, following his brain’s desire to soothe away the strain. She must notice because a moment later her fist flexes open, becoming seemingly relaxed at her side.

He isn’t fooled though. He knows that it was a calculated move on her part.

She is anything but relaxed.

In her palm he sees the indented crescents that her nails left behind.

He hastily shoves his own hands into his pockets, ears growing red from an embarrassment that he’s not sure is justified, and tunes out the conversation that Trip and Skye have no doubt started in an attempt to rid the air of the awkwardness that has emerged in the wake of his exchange with Jemma. When they reach the med-bay Trip hops onto the table, with Skye leaning casually beside him as Jemma putters around and collects the necessary supplies. Fitz pauses in the doorway, watching the ease with which the others seem to interact, before quietly making his way to the lone stool in the furthest corner of the room.

Jemma is nothing if not thorough in her examination of Trip, asking questions in a clinical manner and mending his wound with an ease that leaves an envious feeling in Fitz’s gut. He watches from the corner, doing his best to conceal the awe that he feels whilst watching Jemma in her element. She moves quickly and efficiently, hands working in perfect unison and mind operating at a speed that Fitz still finds stunning.

He recalls what it’s like, mind and body working in synchronicity, and looks to his own shaking hands to avoid whatever furtive glances the others sporadically send his way.

His head snaps up when Coulson walks towards the door, announcing that he needs to reconvene with May to debrief. Fitz looks towards Jemma, waiting for her to lecture the Director about how she needs to look him over before he leaves, and drops his jaw in indignant shock when she merely nods at the other man while focusing on the last few sutures needed for Trip’s arm. Catching his expression, Skye lets out a snort, which she unsuccessfully attempts to disguise as a cough.

The fake hacking catches Jemma’s attention and her eyes flit in the direction of the younger girl. She follows Skye’s gaze until her eyes find him. He must look as confused and exasperated as he feels because Jemma rolls her eyes at him in annoyance. “Honestly Fitz. He’s the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. I’ll look him over when he has the time.”

He’s so stunned by the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu that comes with her rolled eyes and feelings of exasperation towards him that he ignores his desire to point out that maybe she could have looked _him_ over when _he_ had the time. He realizes that there would be no point in responding to her as he would have in the past and does nothing other than nod meekly in resignation and return his gaze back to his twiddling thumbs.

He doesn’t look up when Trip picks Jemma up with his good arm, spinning her around in thanks as she laughs along. He doesn’t look up when Skye loudly announces that she’s removing her shirt (“ _Really_ Skye, that isn’t necessary.”) so Jemma can makes sure she’s injury-free and that Fitz _better not_ get any ideas. He doesn’t look up when silence descends upon the room as Trip and Skye’s voices carry away down the hall. And he _definitely_ doesn’t look up when he sees an immaculate pair of oxford shoes enter his field of vision and stop a foot away from him.

“Fitz?” He can hear the hesitance in her voice as she tries to get his attention and notes that it mirrors his own tentativeness. He looks up at her before quickly returning his gaze to his own scuffed and battered shoes. It only took a second for him to once again be awestruck by her beauty and he knows that his face will show how pitifully in love with her he still is. He hears her sigh before she moves away from him, heading towards the examination table, and he wonders if it’s because she mistook his desire to shield her from his unwanted affection for something else.

“Come on then, let’s get this over with.” She is no longer hesitant, no longer worried, no longer Jemma. She’s back to being Dr. Simmons and he wishes that he wasn’t the one to cause the alteration of her persona.

He makes his way to the table that Trip and Skye recently vacated, wincing as he hoists himself up. He notices Jemma’s hands clench once more into fists at her side as she watches him settle himself on the cold metal counter. Her eyes are moving rapidly in concentration across his form, giving him the opportunity to watch her expression morph from one of concern to one of placid professionalism. His nerves return in full force as he takes in the stoic mask she has carefully put in place, broken only by the clenching of her jaw and the flashing of her eyes as he lets out a sharp intake of breath when he bumps one of the many bruises he was hoping to hide from her. 

“Umm… What… What do you need me to do?” He hopes that taking initiative and seeming somewhat proactive in this check-up will make it go quicker, or at least remove some of the fire from Jemma’s eyes. His question snaps her out of whatever trance she’s put herself in and she focuses her eyes on his own. “Taking off the tactical gear would be a good place to start. Are you wearing an undershirt?”

His face flushes at the question, despite the clinical manner in which she asks it, and he decides that a simple nod would be a sufficient enough response. He begins the process of removing the excess gear, gingerly pulling the vest away as slowly as he can without being too obvious about his attempt to make it as painless as possible. He knows he does a poor job of hiding the bursts of pain that shoot through his abdomen as he removes his black outer shirt because Jemma’s eyes narrow and focus on his torso as she crosses her arms in what he knows to be her angry tell. 

When he’s down to his undershirt and tactical pants (which he will _not_ be removing at any point in the near future thanks very much) he places his hands awkwardly in his lap and waits for Jemma to do what she does best: look after others. 

He doesn’t have to wait long because within a second of stilling his ever-moving hands, Jemma steps towards him, fitting herself between his legs and grasping his face with one hand as the other shines a penlight in his eyes. She’s done this with him once before, after a particularly nasty fall in the lab back at the Academy, and like the first time it takes him a beat to remember to focus on the moving light instead of her eyes (or nose, or cheeks, or _lips)_. 

He holds his breath while he feels her own puff against his neck as she tilts his head left and right, searching his entire face for even the most miniscule of injuries. His heart is hammering in his chest and he hopes that she won’t deem it necessary to bring out the stethoscope because he doesn’t want her to hear how much her presence truly affects him. It’s the closest they’ve been in months and he suddenly feels entirely at home- while simultaneously feeling as though he is in a completely unchartered world.

She turns his head once more so that it is facing ahead, facing _her,_ and for a brief moment he deludes himself into thinking that he feels her thumb tenderly graze his cheek before her hands move to his arms, lifting and prodding them to check for bruises. Each time she finds one she makes a note on a nearby legal pad before continuing with the process. Every time he winces her fingers briefly clench into a fist as she breathes through her nose, exhaling sharply before moving on. He winces a lot more than he thought he would and thinks that _maybe_ he should have prepared his body a bit more before jumping into his second-first field mission- considering his _last_ field mission left him more damaged than anyone would still care to admit.

He can’t help but compare his examination to those that were given to Trip and Skye. Where theirs were full of jokes and camaraderie, his is full of a building awkwardness and looming silence. The few times said silence is broken, with her asking questions about what occurrences during the mission caused which injuries and him trying to provide her with whatever details he thinks she’d deem helpful, he watches as she physically retracts away from him. 

She is entirely detached in her questioning of him, and his own attempts at breaking the silence are met with noncommittal hums and one-word answers. After his third attempt he gives up and lets the quietness consume him as a sinking feeling emerges and he begins to realize what is actually happening. 

He realizes that this is the first time since the incident in the med pod that the silence between them is completely and utterly intentional. It isn’t caused by the uncomfortable tension that has surrounded them since her return from Hydra, or from their newfound lack of synchrony. This silence is planned, calculated, and completely deliberate. It is silent because Jemma is actively choosing not to speak with him. 

He feels the knot of tension slowly grow in his stomach because he is well aware of what an intentionally silent Jemma means. He’d experienced it a handful of times, each more terrifying then the last. This quiet calm means walking on eggshells with baited breath until she decides to end the silence with yelling. Usually _loud_ yelling. 

“Alright, lift your shirt up.” Her hands are resting on her hips as she speaks to him, eyes not wavering from the spot on his torso that she has correctly deduced is covered with bruises. He’d really rather she didn’t see them, partially because he has no desire for her to see his chest in general, but mostly because every time she makes a note of his injuries, he can see her physically restraining herself from snapping her pencil. 

“Wh-What umm… what? Why?!” His prides himself in only allowing his voice to shoot up one octave instead of its expected two or three. “That’s uh… That’s not really ne-necessary I don’t think.” He doesn’t realize that he’s tugging the hem of his shirt _down_ until she grabs his hands, glares at him, and carefully places them on their respective sides of his thighs, muttering another, “ _Honestly_ Fitz,” under her breath as she does. 

She reaches for the hem of his shirt herself, bunching it up and lifting slowly until she sees the full extent of his mottled torso. He knows the skin covering his left ribs is likely black in color considering each time he breathes too deeply a flash of pain instantly resonates from the area. Jemma lets out a sharp exhale when she sees the extent of the damage and he both sees and _feels_ her hands tighten as she fists the material of his shirt in her steady hands. “Hold your shirt up while I take a look at this.” 

It’s an order. 

He lifts his hands from where they are laying uselessly at his sides and grasps the fabric from her, careful to keep the bruises exposed and accessible. His hand brushes her own during the trade-off and he sits straighter in an attempt to hide his sudden state of breathlessness. 

Her hands are cold against his flushed skin and it takes everything in him not to flinch away from her prodding. It hurts, yes, but his desire to put some distance between his chest and her hands doesn’t stem from the physical ache of his bruised body so much as the general ache in his heart- more accurately _brain_ \- when he thinks of the professional reason for their proximity. She is gentle and meticulous in her ministrations, grabbing the Arnica balm and applying it generously to his ribs before carefully wrapping him in an ace bandage. 

Her hands linger for a moment on his side after ensuring that the bandage is in place, and he swears he sees her eyes moisten before she blinks and turns away. “There. Should be proper now.” She begins packing up the medical supplies, resolutely refusing to look at him, and he takes this as a sign of his dismissal. He lowers himself from the table, not quite sure what to do, and lets himself linger in her presence for just a moment more. 

“Umm… Th… Thank you. For umm… for patching me up.” She doesn’t respond other than lifting her hand jerkily to indicate that she’s heard him. He knows when Jemma is trying to maintain her composure and, though he doesn’t understand _why_ her composure needs maintaining, he does understand that it’s time for him to go. He swings the tactical vest over his shoulder, hissing in pain as he twists his body too far, too quickly. He lets the vest drop to the floor as he clutches his abdomen and winces at his stupidity. 

She whirls around to face him before he can assure her that he’s fine and he suddenly finds himself looking at an enraged Jemma. “Sorry, sorry! It’s n-nothing! Just moved too quickly!” He finds himself holding his hands up in defense as he tries to apologize for something that he doesn’t think actually needs apologizing _for._ “Just, just a post-mission hazard I suppose.” He tries to force a chuckle at his terrible attempt at levity but it dies in his throat when he sees how Jemma reacts to his words. 

“ _Dammit_ Fitz!” Her sudden exclamation startles him because it’s full of more emotion than he’s heard from her in ages. The fact that she slams her notepad on the table while simultaneously throwing a roll of gauze at his face is equally startling. “You should have been more careful!” She steps closer to him and he knows that this is the eruption that the earlier silence suggested was coming. “You should have been more _careful._ You should have been more careful now and you sure as _hell_ should have been more careful on that damn mission! If you’d been more careful, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt, you wouldn’t be in pain, and I wouldn’t have to stand idly by- unable to help- watching you wince every five seconds.” 

He’s distracted by the way her face grows redder with each word that passes through her lips and the way that the tendons in her neck seem to strain against her skin. He’s so distracted that it takes him longer than it usually would to feel the indignation creep into his consciousness as her words finally register. “Wh- **_what_**? What are you talking about?! I _was_ bloody careful. I have a **_bruise_** Jemma! I didn’t hear you yelling at Trip about needing to be more careful and he got himself _shot_!” 

“Trip is a trained Specialist who isn’t still recovering from a traumatic field mission that left him in a _coma_ for 9 days!” She says it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world and all he can do is stare at her as a wave of understanding crashes over him. 

“That’s... that’s it isn’t it? That’s what all of this has been about. You didn’t think I was ready to go back into the field.” It comes out as a whisper in his own ears but it’s evidently loud enough for her to hear and respond. “The last time you were in the field, we both ended up at the bottom of the damn ocean!” She must see that she hits a nerve with this statement because he hears her gasp sharply as though she regrets the path of the conversation. He half expects her to apologize, say she can’t deal with him right now, and walk away. Instead he sees the resolve sink in as she matches his glare with one of her own, unwilling to back down or retract anything she’s said. 

“You still think I’m broken! God of course. Of _course_ you didn’t want me on that mission. You… you didn’t think I could handle it.” He too is yelling now and is suddenly grateful that the others had abandoned him with Jemma. He’s grown accustomed to their looks of pity. He doesn’t want to see how they’d look at him now.

“No Fitz, that’s not… That’s not it.” She matches him, as she always does, both in decibel and aggravated passion as she rubs her temples in exasperation. Both of their breathing is heavy and reflective of the push and pull nature of their relationship, his inhales in perfect time with her exhales. “It’s not that I didn’t think you weren’t ready. Of _course_ you were ready. You’ve improved well beyond what would have been expected in such a short period of time. You’ve shown tremendous progress in both your physical and cognitive abilities and have more than surpassed what would be required for an operative in a field mission. I know that, I _know_ that okay? I’m on your side Fitz, truly, I’m _always_ on your side. I just…” She falters with her words, instead choosing to scrub her face and burrow the heels of her hands into her eyes, a clear indicator of her reluctance to continue. 

“What? God, _what_ Jemma? Can’t you just be honest with me for _once._ ” He knows that’s not necessarily a fair accusation to make considering that she’s only actually _not_ been honest with him once, but in his opinion, that one lie is responsible for the complete and utter demise of FitzSimmons. Every awkward moment and uncomfortable silence between them has been a result of that deception, and he thinks it’s high time she realizes it. He watches as his words compute in her mind and sees the exact moment that she analyzes every implication behind them. Her eyes meet his own and she stands a bit taller, ready to confess whatever it is that she was unwilling to a moment ago. 

“It’s not that I thought you weren’t ready to go on the mission it’s just… It’s just that _I_ wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for you to go.” Her voice breaks a bit at the end and he watches her deflate before him as though her confession was a secret that no one was meant to hear. 

He kind of wishes that he hadn’t. 

 _She_ didn’t want him to go. He thinks back to what she’d said about the improvements he’s made and realizes that her vocal assessment of him was based on the standard observations of a medical personal observing a potential SHIELD recruit. She admitted that he’s improved, but all he hears is that to _her_ he still hasn’t improved _enough._ He is capable, but less capable than he was before. Intelligent, but less intelligent than before. Able, yet decidedly _not._ He was ready technically, but not ready enough for _her_. 

The conclusion makes him want to curl up and cry, but he’s done giving Simmons a reason to think he’s weak or less than. So he decides that anger is the next best emotion and lets it fuel him.

“Well, you know what Simmons? If… if… if you never wanted me to go on another mission, you… you should have just left me in that pod at the bottom of the ocean.” He’s closer to her now than he was on that damn table, his breaths intermingling with her own, and is able to catalogue every minute change that flits across her face. He watches as her eyes widen, becoming more and more damp with each syllable that leaves his mouth. He looks at her and knows, _knows,_ that he’s pushing to hard, going too far, but he barrels through anyways. “Then... Then you wouldn’t have a damn thing to worry about. I’d be dead and you’d be better off!” 

He isn’t prepared for the slap that connects with his face and is even less prepared for the second one that makes contact the moment he recovers enough to lift his head.

He grasps his cheek in shock, raising his head far more slowly this time in case a third one is on its way, and opens his mouth in stunned silence as he meets Jemma’s gaze.

“Don’t you _ever_ say that to me again.” She’s livid now, tears streaming down her face as she looks at him with the closest thing he’s ever seen to hate on her features. He never thought he’d see such pure anger and detest coming from Jemma, and he _really_ didn’t think it would ever be directed towards him. She turns to walk away from him and he panics. His left cheek is still warm from the sting of her hand and he is too astonished by the situation to do anything other than grab her arm and turn her back around to face him.

 “Jem…” She wrenches her arm from his grasp quicker than he would have thought possible as she rounds on him, fire in her eyes and venom in her voice. “Let’s get one thing straight Fitz. You _tried_ to make me leave you in that med-pod. You tried to force my hand and make me do something that I would _never_ consider doing and I _hate_ you, I absolutely _hate_ you for that. Almost as much as I hate you for thinking that I would _ever_ be better off in a world that didn’t have you in it.”

“You seemed to do all right without me in the world of Hydra.” _Idiot._

She closes in on him, forcing herself into his personal space while backing him up against the cold table, and he does nothing to stop her. “You’re right Fitz. I did do _all right_. I woke up every morning, went to work for a despicable organization, and came home to an empty apartment. I spent everyday without my best friend, or any of my other friends for that matter, and lived in a constant state of terror for the sole purpose of gathering any morsel of intel that would possibly, _hopefully,_ be useful to Coulson. I was completely alone and I was _all right._ I _managed._ And every day I spent being _all right_ , you were getting _better_ without me.” 

She’s sobbing now and he wants her to stop but finally understands that he needs to hear this as much as she needs to say it. 

“I realize you think I abandoned you. I realize that for some reason you feel as though you’ve somehow lost value to me, and that I think your worthless or less capable than you were. But you’re wrong. You’re invaluable Fitz. You’re everything to me and you just don’t see it. You _refuse_ to see it and you _refuse_ to let me show you.” He can see every intermingling fleck of gold and brown in her eyes. “You’re pushing me away and I _understand_ why, maybe I deserve it, but that doesn’t mean that you have the right to assume that my feelings are any less valid than yours. I wasn’t ready for you to go on this mission because I lost you once and then I lost you again. And I just didn’t want to have to go through worrying about losing you for a third time.” 

He’s still stunned by this turn of events- _Did she really **slap** him? **Twice**?!-_ and just sort of opens and closes his mouth repeatedly without emitting any sound or coherent words. All he can do is stare at her, noting the anguish on her face and the tears in her eyes, and attempt to silently convey his own emotions. _Confusion. Love. Resentment. Love. Understanding. Love. Love. Love._ It doesn’t work because whatever she sees on his face causes her to take a shaky breath, nod in defeat, and turn away from him for the umpteenth time that day. 

This time he tries to use actual words to stop her 

“Well… If… If I’d known that getting a couple of bruises would convince you to… to _really_ talkto me… I… I would have just shown you the one I got tripping up the stairs last week.” He winces once more at his idiocy and tries to muster up a tentative smile as he sees her turn to him. She looks at him quizzically for a moment, as though analyzing an unknown species that she is desperately hoping to understand. He feels his cheeks grow red, likely evening out the slapped and un-slapped portions of his face, and he grabs the back of his neck with his hand to quell his nerves. “Though… That… that probably wouldn’t have helped with the whole, ‘I’m incredibly self-depre-deprecating, and feel worth…worthless, and have ther-therefore been avoiding you so that y-you won’t think less of me,’ plan that I’ve been en-enacting these past few weeks.” 

He’s basically just admitted his role in their separation and he watches as she processes the fact that he’s purposefully gone out of his way to evade her. After a moment, her eyes flash to meet his own and he sees the same raw, unbridled, emotion as before. The look is now synonymous with being slapped so he closes his eyes, tensing whatever part of his body he can, and braces himself for the sting that is sure to come. 

As it turns out, bracing himself was the right call considering Jemma proceeds to crash into him with a force entirely disproportionate to her small body, her hands grasping the back of his head and tugging him down to meet her in a searing kiss. His eyes flash open in surprise at the initial contact and then flutter closed as Jemma’s lips mold against his own. 

The adrenaline from the mission pales in comparison to the feelings that course through him as Jemma tugs him closer, pressing her entire body against his own and gripping him with a strength that he finds astounding. He’s as close to euphoric as a person can be without the aid of drugs, and he can’t help but cling to Jemma in a bid to make the feeling last as long as possible. 

He can’t help thinking that the unfinished sentences and awkward disconnect of late were merely red herrings, throwing them off and tricking them into believing that they were no longer in sync. This kiss completely contradicts the past few weeks of interactions as their lips move in tandem, a balanced ebb and flow reminiscent of their past synergy.                                              

He spins them around and picks her up, gently placing her on the metal table behind her, allowing them to utilize their now even heights to get even closer to each other. His hands grip at her waist as hers wrap around his neck and keep him anchored to her. He’s not sure how long they stay fused together but suddenly her arms have moved from his neck to his chest and instead of pulling him closer, they are now pushing him away. 

It feels like a bucket of ice water splashing down on his brief moment of happiness and he hastily steps away from her before he has to hear the word _mistake._ He doesn’t even make it half a step backwards though because Jemma grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him back towards her. He must look a little startled, or wary at the very least, because she smiles as her hands move back to his face and her fingers gently play with the hair at the back of his neck. “Air Fitz. I just needed air.” 

He widens his eyes in understanding as he realizes how heavily they’re both breathing, chests heaving in a bid to get more oxygen. He reflects back on the last time he was this desperate for air, and decides that the series of events that caused _this_ moment of breathlessness are far more preferable. Her hands move down his chest, fingers hooking into the belt loops of his pants, and she pulls him as close to her as she can. 

She is smiling tentatively up at him, clearly nervous and awaiting some sort of verbal response. As is often the case these days, he can’t seem to find the appropriate words for the situation. He opens his mouth to speak but the words do not come. He doesn’t mind though, because he knows that this moment of speechlessness isn’t caused by the hypoxia. He’s not sure words are necessary at this point anyways so he lurches forward and envelopes her in a hug, head tucked in her neck and arms wrapped around her small frame. 

She lets out a fond laugh as she wraps her own arms loosely around his shoulders and kisses his temple in affection. He squeezes harder, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, and burrows his face into her collarbone. He does everything he can to prevent the moisture in his eyes from escaping but then she speaks and he knows it’s a lost cause. “I missed you.” 

She whispers it into his ear and he can do nothing but nod in agreement. “M’sorry Jem.” He hears her sniffle as he feels her arms tighten around him. “Me too.” He pulls back to look at her and notices the stray tears that have coated her own cheeks. He cradles her face in his hands, using the pads of his thumbs to brush away the moisture, and lets out a shaky breath. His thumbs trace idle patterns on her cheeks as he rests his forehead on her own, a sudden sense of calm and clarity surrounding him. 

There’s still much to be said, and even more for them to fix, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that so long as they’re together, they’ll manage to overcome any obstacle that comes their way. He lets a content smile overtake him as he peppers her face with kisses, much like she did at the bottom of the ocean, before leaning back to observe her. 

He looks at her now, smiling and hopeful with tears of happiness prickling her eyes, and a surge of warmth and tenderness permeates through him. He does the only think he wants to do, what he’s wanted to do for _ages_ really, and leans forward to affectionately press his lips to hers. This kiss is less frantic than before, though no less intense, and is filled with every clichéd promise that moments like these are expected to make. Their grips on one another tighten simultaneously, each pulling the other closer, and he removes his lips from hers just long enough to whisper what they’ve now both realized.

“We’re going to be okay.” 

There is no hesitation. No stutter. No doubt. 

These words come easily.


End file.
